


Humans Are So Strange About Blood

by blcwriter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Always-a-girl!Stiles, Cunnilingus, F/M, Genderswap, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, Loss of Virginity, Mating, Stream of Consciousness, Underage Sex, period sex, shark week cunnilingus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally a fill at the TW kink meme for the prompt:  <i>Derek/Fem!Stiles - Shark Week Cunnilingus</i><br/>Derek loves eating out a female Stiles while she has her period.  That is all.  Original post and fill <a>here</a>.    Cleaned up a bit for verb tenses & format, a few more inner thoughts on Stiles' part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Humans Are So Strange About Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This PWP prompt turned into Porn, what Porn? with angst, inner fem!Stiles monologuing about missing her mom, reflections on ADD, grief, depression, self-esteem and eating disorders, explicit descriptions of acute and serious migraine pain, and oh, yeah, Derek Hale creeperwolf gives Stiles magical healing head at the end before dropping the SURPRISE, YOU'RE MY MATE bomb. Because he's good with his words, Derek is. But he does like to take care of his pack, and he's a grumblewolf when they don't let him.
> 
> Alternate title: ASJKSJ porn + is fem!Stiles still Stiles? I avoided a novel about Derek's slamming > words, because I figured Stiles with or without a penis could still wield sarcasm like a wolfsbane-dipped sword. 
> 
> Although someone write Derek going to abuse counseling for srs, man. The h/c after his mangstrealizations? GUH.

She’d finally managed to get the cap off the pen—stabbed it into her thigh, convinced her fingers to uncurl from the injector because every clenched muscle just sent more waves of agony up to her head and back down her body-- a riptide of pain and thinking hurt but the pain didn’t stop the thinking, either—  


Managed to crawl into bed, got the covers half up despite dizzy—nauseous, everything inside screaming to get out, like all her organs, her brain, her eyeballs would feel better if they could just claw their way through her skin and bones, onto the floor—

Just managed to curl up, clench her teeth because cold, so fucking cold, the whimper that comes out and gets choked back between teeth that hurt, jaw cramping because she wasn’t going to puke and chattering teeth made her head pound even worse than the cold, the shuddering muscles—she wasn’t—not going to, no—

“What’s the matter with you.”

It was all Stiles could do to wave a hand at the voice because she didn’t care what he wanted, not right now, not ever, not until the pain went away, he had to lower his voice. 

There was a flicker of light behind her eyelids and a huge hot hand on her head—she jerked back, couldn’t help it, her skin hurt, head’s an overinflated balloon and it pounded, she was going to explode, it hurt, hurt, stop touching—

The hand pulled away, the “Stiles,” a command, not a question, tell him what’s wrong but she’d lose it, cry, puke, lose it, if she said anything so she didn’t. She burrowed further in—it’d be ten minutes for the injection, all she could do is wait, wait for the blood in her head to stop sounding so loud, her heartbeat hard and uneven and fast, worse than anytime anything has ever tried to kill her. It was always the worst, worse than the panic, worse than Mom not being here, that’s how bad.

The pounding was so loud and distracting that the bed-dip, the brush of a hand over her forehead again—she’d forgotten he was there until he was touching, he needed to stop, “Scott says you get these every month? You should have told me,” but he was curled up behind her and he had his hand on her forehead like that was going to help—but no, no werewolf juju for humans, she’d looked it up, Scott had _tried_ but it hurt more, no surprise, Stiles was supposed to be all alone, and she could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck as he said—

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

As if it was that

\--

He’d intended to tell Stiles that she needed to stop skipping full moon runs now that Scott had finally submitted and joined the pack. The bite had been like a bone snapping back into joint, he could feel it, the pack did, heard the rest of them huff in relief while Derek cleaned off the bite, then let Allison clean up the rest. That had been the last time Stiles had shown up at his house and—it had occurred to him only after that. She. Well. She wasn’t allowed to skip pack meetings. 

He hadn’t quite figured out how he was going to do that without Stiles starting to argue back just for the sake of talking, since so far, Derek figured, talking and making his life difficult was pretty much was Stiles lived for. That, curly fries, lacrosse, and something called an MMPORG, whatever that was, it was on the computer, that was all the sense he’d ever made of the explanation that had been overcut by Jackson telling Scott and Stiles they were the nerdiest nerds ever the fuck ever and Erica and Boyd asking which one and Isaac growling and pouncing on Jackson because “They’re cool, motherfucker, social, don’t hate, you asshole,” and he’d ended up having to wade in to separate the pups. He never did figure out what the MMPORG was. He could have looked it up, but knowledge and the acquisition thereof was Stiles’ province.

But he hadn’t expected to climb in her window to have what she’d call a little chat just to find her dropping some kind of needle smelling of drugs while she curled up on her bed and whimpered behind a jaw clenched so tight he would think she was trying not to fang out. Except. He was well aware Stiles was not a wolf. And she didn’t answer his question, except to scrunch up her face like he was talking too loudly, then bat a limp hand at him like she was a cub who could make him back off after she’d lost a bad fight.

She was pasty—greenish, almost, like she needed to vomit—and Derek had never seen Stiles sick or hurt unless it was something related to some evil attack. Which happened too often. The medication in the tube seemed to mark this as something entirely human. She whined again behind teeth, her forehead furrowing as he leant down, tested her clammy skin. She jerked away before he could, because the pain was like a semi-truck slamming into him at full speed. It hurt as much as that time that he died, throbbing waves of pain, nausea, everything inundating his senses until he clamped his hand away, over his own mouth, because he wasn’t going to vomit on Stiles’ bed.

He was going to get answers.

_What’s wrong with Stiles?_

Scott’s answer was typical Scott, not enough information and too much all at once. _Migraine, leave her alone. She went home to sleep off her meds. DON’T TOUCH HER, the pain transfer thing doesn’t work, touch just hurts her more. She’ll be better tomorrow._

_Why is she sick?_

He could practically taste Scott’s embarrassment through the phone. _PMS thing._

This happened to her every month? He was aware that the pack’s female humans cycled together and that they cycled with the moon because whomever among them was most dominant had that cycle (Stiles, she didn’t reek of birth control pills like the rest), but. He had not been led to believe that it was as painful in its onset at Scott was seeming to say. He managed to not crack his phone as he sent back another question, because it was important.

_All the females get like this?_

There was a pause, as if… as if Scott was trying to figure out how to tell a birth wolf the human birds and the bees. Which he knew. The general details. Clearly not the specifics.

_Just Stiles. Rest of the girls just get cranky. And cramps, sometimes bad? And food things?_

Food things. Great. Scott texted again. _Just. Don’t touch her, I tried the pain thing, it. Doesn’t. Leave her alone._

Derek shoved his phone in his pocket, because Scott wasn’t going to tell him what to do, even if he was concerned for his friend. He didn’t know everything about being a wolf yet. The fact that he’d even tried it with Stiles meant he had tried it with some other human, and that would be Allison, so.

He shrugged off his jacket. Toed off his shoes. 

Curled himself flush to—she was shaking, her heart pounding, the blood thrumming inside her when he put his hand back on her forehead. She whimpered again at the contact. Jerked, stiffening, but— he told her to sleep, pulled her closer, gritted his teeth and huffed out a breath because the medication stink was not doing as much as it should. As he could.

As he drew the pain off and bit through his lip because—fuck, fuck, it hurt, but it wouldn’t be long, wouldn’t kill him, fuck, she was only human, fuck it hurt—she sagged, as he drew the rest out, and fell asleep like he’d told her to. He blinked off the tears because—owie, as Stiles would say—and licked the blood off his lip as his fangs retracted.

And then, because she’d only gotten the blanket half on herself, he pulled it up, pulled her in closer and rearranged them both because for once—for once Stiles didn’t fight him, even if it was because she was unconscious—and closed his own eyes, breathing in her scent until it changed from vinegar tar molasses anxiety pain sadness to her usual scent and the nutmeg of deep, human sleep. That latter was not a smell he smelled often on Stiles, he realized. And didn’t startle, because he didn’t want to wake her, and he was a grown werewolf. He could control his reactions, at least now that he’d pulled the pain off.

But without the babble of Stiles to distract him, it was easy to think. She didn’t often smell of sleep. And she was usually up, pretty much whenever he’d come by because they needed her to figure out something that Derek could smell the edges of, but couldn’t sense the whole thing because noses? Not google. Or grimoires. Or bestiaries. All of which Stiles was good with, and always reading anyway when he came by.

The only logical conclusion was that she didn’t sleep all that often. And had headaches so bad every month that even Derek teared up.

Well. 

He’d deal with the details later, figure out something once he was sure the pain wouldn’t come back.

Her cinnamon pepper cedar salt evened out, the acrid tar pain scent receding until it was just Stiles’ smell overlaid with her baseline tang of worry (why did Stiles smell of worry in sleep) and the ticklish, sweet nutmeg.

He closed his eyes and stopped staring at the milk skin (not as green, clammy now), the chocolate freckles at the join of her neck where he’d shoved his nose, because there was always a pocket of scent behind her round, exposed, little ears. 

Closed his eyes and chased nutmeg.

\--

She was delightfully warm when she woke up, toasty and her head wasn’t even as fuzzy as it got from the drugs. She tentatively started to stretch, to see if it would set off another attack, since sometimes it did and it was twenty four hours, not twelve, before she could crawl out of bed. 

She didn’t stretch far before she felt a twinge, stopped before she could set anything off—and an arm—fuck, an arm, who was in bed with her, oh, god, fuck—

“Stiles. It still hurts? Go back to sleep,” and an enormous palm was stroking over her forehead again even as her brain registered Derek, what the fuck, werewolf juju didn’t work and didn’t he know it was one creepy thing to climb in a girl’s window, but to climb

“Sleep,” he breathed in her ear, hot. It smelt like warm pine needles. 

She dreamt of running barefoot in the woods. Chasing sunbeams.

\--

He’d had to hide four times while the sheriff checked in on his daughter. The first time, he’d come in and sat on Stiles’ bed, looking tired and old as he watched her, minutes on end, before adjusting the covers and saying, a whisper, like he knew anything louder would hurt, “It’s not like I don’t always wish your mom was still here, kiddo, but I think she’d be better at this than me.” He’d tentatively patted her hip under the covers, but Stiles hadn’t budged, and the sour vinegar worry was mostly the sheriff’s, as he sighed and got up and retrieved the medicine needle and some plastic cover, threw them out, tidied the few things on the floor and the desk that marked the trail of someone stumbling into the room and letting things fall where they would. 

Derek had been tempted to tidy, but he’d also been sure the sheriff would notice. And that he would check in on Stiles.

He hid again in the closet each time the sheriff came up, but he would only stand in the doorway, watching his daughter, the rise and fall of her chest as she slept on, still curled on her side because the renewed headache apparently made it the only possible sleeping position. And then he’d crawl back under the covers, pull Stiles against him again, and try to pull some more of the discomfort off, all the while trying to tell himself (and failing, Derek was good at failing) that he had known Stiles for almost two years, and yet it was okay for him to not have known she had disabling headaches because humans were strange about their bodies and sex and Stiles didn’t like asking for help unless it was for one of her friends. (In which case, she wouldn’t shut up.)

It didn’t matter, he finally decided, not long after listening the sheriff drive off for work, having called Scott to ask his daughter’s best friend to stop by after school. Derek had learned to push help on people whether they asked for it or not—and whether or not they were pack and he was their alpha. Stiles had rubbed off on him that way (and so many others), and if right now he felt like growling in frustration that Stiles hadn’t believed him when he said he’d protect her… 

Didn’t she know?

Stiles mumbled, hunching and shifting. “Stop growlin’,” she slurred, sighing and going limp once again when he pulled her back into position. She didn’t smell like hurt so much anymore. Just like tired. And Derek.

He huffed, pressed his nose under her ear, listened to her heartbeat settle again.

\--

When Stiles woke up, it might have been, probably, maybe, okay, kind of definitely, because she had a horrendous cramp and also because someone was mouthing her neck. Mouthing. Like. Whuffling. And lips. And little flickers of tongue.

“It’s me,” Derek growled, then promptly went back to breathing her shoulder in like her t-shirt had mortally offended him but he was going to be wolf-polite and not eat her while she was sleeping. 

No one had ever answered her question about what she smelt like, because she wasn’t dumb and Derek. Sniffed. Sniffed her a lot, and he probably thought he was being subtle, but he kind of got this constipated wolf face (and was that possible, even, constipated wolves?) sometimes, so, she figured she probably smelled funny. Off. Though not so off that he didn’t still come leaping in her window when the most recent monster was tearing it up in the woods or Scott had done something stupid and he wanted Stiles to call him and tell him he was being a moron (Stiles pretty much always agreed) or the pack was over his house and Stiles was the only one who could cook, so she should come over and play den mother for them and make extra lasagna because Boyd loved her lasagna.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Derek growled. Actually growled. And his arm, which had been kind of—clasped up her chest, his hand kind of hooked onto her collarbone like he was trying both not to cop a feel of her boobs (not that there was much there to cop, boobs, she meant) and feel her pulse—pulled away, and he started to rub her belly. Like he knew she was getting cramps or something. Or could probably. 

Oh.

God.

Smell the blood.

Okay. Then.

Officially most embarrassing thing ever.

She could feel the patented, signature, Stiles-full-body-blush start, feel it rise up her neck, her cheeks feeling molten because. 

Well. 

Fuck if she knew, wolves could smell everything else, they could probably smell menstruation. And while she might be a scrawny tomboy (who kicked ass, and played lacrosse because softball? Sucked) she was still. A girl who got her period, because her dad had been kind of an asshole when she’d stopped eating after Mom died and then stopped getting her periods, too, and that whole “No eating disorders under my roof” fight had kind of gotten them over the immediate shock of Mom’s death though frankly, it had been a relief, not to get the migraines, because periods were bad enough without the headaches and nothing had worked, so, a little anorexia had been helpful, that way. In. You know, hindsight. But dad had this thing about Stiles not dying, too. So. Curly fries were okay. 

Sometimes ice cream.

But. 

Derek’s hand was still rubbing her stomach, over her pjs, and she had no idea why he was a) in bed with her b) in bed with her and c) did she mention Derek freaking Hale was in her bed?

The fact that her cramps didn’t hurt at all now so—it was an alpha thing, the were-human-pain-thing juju? But Scott had said Allison, so. More to research. She should probably get out of bed and get some tampons. Before she ruined sheets and. You know. Menstruated in a bed with a werewolf.

“You never listen to me,” Derek huffed, but there was no follow-up picking her up so he could slam her into a door, just his hand rubbing her stomach. Which felt nice. Really nice. But.

She’d blame it on her Adderall, or the lack of it, or the way the migraines always left her stupid when she woke up, because she just rolled on her back and looked up at Derek, who had epic bed head that in no way detracted from how Derek he was, and answered.

“It’s not your problem.” Because it wasn’t.

Derek’s eyes flashed, sea-blue-green to red, but he didn’t fang out—just propped himself up on one arm at her side and kept one hand on her stomach—as he said “I told you I would always protect you, and you didn’t believe me.”

The fact that he’d borrowed one of her Batman t-shirts and that it was stretched impressively over her chest (dude had more cleavage than her, those pecs, seriously…) was not at all distracting. Nor was the way he mouth-breathed, right then, like he was scenting what Stiles was thinking and just. 

“Um. Okay. Look. It’s a headache, for fuck’s sake, and there’s a full moon, like, tonight, and you’ve got a pack of teen wolves who can’t control themselves at the new moon, much less the full one, so do you honestly think I was going to be like, um, hey, Derek, female humans do this thing every month where they feel shitty and bleed and mine happens to coincide with the full moon, so, screw getting ready with the pack and come over and take my migraine away?”

Derek—she hated them all, how fast they moved—rolled and was two inches away from her face as he propped himself over her body, caging her in.

“Yes.”

Right. Because remember, Derek Hale, king of explanations.

But then he nosed along her jaw—again with the whuffling, and murmured—“You’re mine, it’s offensive that you wouldn’t ask me.”

Ah. So. Apparently she’d got adopted with Scott, even without the biting thing. Lydia had rolled her eyes at her last week when she’d made Stiles come shopping with her and Jackson at the mall when Stiles had asked if they shouldn’t have brought someone pack like Isaac (Isaac liked shopping. Stiles did not.) instead. And Erica had not said anything about weird pain-snuggling with Derek, but then. He didn’t seem to like girls very much. Especially Stiles.

“Um. Okay. Sorry? But. Well. Wolfing and not rending, more important than headaches.”

Derek blinked at her like she’d said something in Greek. Well. No. He probably knew ancient Greek and was humoring her with the research because otherwise Scott would be lonely without his best friend and Derek was all about pack harmony, or harmony with wolves he wanted inside his pack or just overall less rending and tearing unless he was calling the shots. So. But he still look perplexed, and then he sniffed the base of her neck, his black hair tickling her nose. In a softer, non-fangy, not coarse wolf-haired way.

“I’ll decide what’s important,” he muttered. And then he licked her. 

She yelped, because “What the hell, Derek?” He didn’t even like her.

Derek, though, was looking satisfied with himself, like his tongue was a calculating super computer or something and he’s just figured out something important by painting her neck with his spit.

“You’re a virgin,” he announced, and Stiles couldn’t help it, because duh. She rolled her eyes. Everyone knew that, including the neighborhood and visiting witches, they kept trying to sacrifice her and shit.

Derek licked her jawline. In a less tasting-to-learn information way. And in a way that. She didn’t know, because then he was talking again. “And for the record, I like you. But you’re a virgin, so you wouldn’t know that endorphins and regular orgasms are a way of relieving…”

“Menstrual discomfort and PMS?” Really. They were having this conversation. “Um. Knew that. But. Ew. And. Migraines are not cured by sex. I own a vibrator, thanks. And. There’s no research. Or I’d be buying so many batteries that…”

Derek growled at her, and then he was nipping the end of her chin, licking again, tasting, his breath hot over the trail he’d left.

“Humans are so strange about blood,” he murmured, and then he was pulling away. 

She was about to, well, she didn’t know what, and then Derek had pulled the covers with him and she was cold, damnit, but he was sitting back on her legs, looking at her with this inscrutable look on his face like he was offended by her pajamas. And then he tugged her pants down and off, said “Don’t start wearing girly clothes, ever, no one’s allowed to see you,” and started.

Eating. 

Her. 

Out. 

In the good way. With teeth. In the good way.

This was her life, getting magical healing head from Derek Hale after anti-migraine snuggling, and she was going to ask what the fuck, Derek, but his tongue was sucking her clit into his mouth after he’d shoved her legs open and licked her all over and all she could get out was a rattling gasp, because Derek. 

Ahhhhh was about the only sound she could make. And then not even that, because he was alternately sucking and licking at her cunt, nipping her clit, thumbs stroking the inside of her thighs as he held her open and—she screamed when he shoved his tongue inside, wiggling it deeper and thick, hot, wet, she was cramping but not in the way that hurt, just, 

“You can pull my hair if you want,” he mumbled, then slurped—oh god, she was leaking, she could feel it—whatever was leaking out of her cunt. It was blood. Her blood. She could smell it, that and something musky and Derek and something else musky that was. Her? And then his contented growl against her clit made her hips buck because she didn’t know how she knew that growl was contentment but—he had her clit back under his lips and was teasing her, sucking it in and out and licking it lightly, too lightly to… she could feel it burning, all of her, burning and hot and—she tugged his hair, yanked, because he was chuckling and backing away like he thought he was going somewhere, and even if this was just magical healing head for purely pack-healing measures, he was going to stay there and suck at her clit until she came.

“I will. But I’m going to finger you, too. And then after you come, I’m going to do it again. Because I want to.”

So apparently she’d said that complaint out loud. 

She never could shut her mouth. 

Apparently, though, Derek minded less than she’d thought, and the growling and slamming and glarey looks of indecipherable glares were all foreplay, or no, this was foreplay, this, with Derek tugging her pubic hair—just a bit, sharp, and it hurts, hurts so good, and he’s still sucking on her clit before—

“Oh, God,” she hissed, when he crooked a finger inside her, went right for the g-spot like he’s got a map to the inside of her cunt. Which maybe that had been what the neck-licking was for? Wolf MRI? She lost the thought as he crooked his finger inside her again, pulled out, and then there were two fingers in her, stretching her wide. 

A whorish moan (she knew it was, she watched porn, thanks) escaped her when he found her g-spot again, and he nipped at her clit before backing off and licking her folds, sucking and tugging and nipping and flat human teeth and hot, hot tongue all over her cunt as he drove his fingers inside her, twisting and crooking and holding her open with this studious look on his face he was learning something he liked for once. Because Derek? Not such a fan of things academic, at least he didn’t like it when Stiles babbled about them, but.

Okay. She may have gotten herself up on her elbows because she was not going to miss the spectacle of Derek Hale deflowering her.

His eyes flashed red as he flicked a glance up, and oh, she must have been babbling, but he smirked and shoved her back into the bed, grunting as he simultaneously pulled her legs up over his hot, broad, inhumanly hot shoulders and settled in for a moment alone with her clit that had her grabbing his ears and holding on for the ride because—fuck. 

Fuck.

His fingers inside her were relentless; she couldn’t catch whatever rhythm he didn’t set. She just. Shook and shuddered and moaned, because her vibrator never told her that she was a screamer. Rude. He mouthed at her, licking, obscene wet sucking noises and she could feel, her cunt spasming around his fingers as her skin tingled and burnt and she couldn’t catch her breath even though Derek was the one acting like he had gills because seriously? His mouth has not peeled away from her cunt for like...

She screamed through the first orgasm, bucked against him and he just shoved his nose against her clit, rubbing it and licking, licking at her now empty hole as wet-sticky fingers grabbed the underside of her leg and pushed her legs open even more widely. 

He shoved his tongue inside her and sucked—hard—and she screamed, barely aware of whatever she was babbling, because he was twisting her clit with his fingers, rubbing it back and forth under his thumb as she shuddered and whined because oh, fuck, it’s too—

She panted through the third orgasm, whined through the fourth, begged Derek to stop for a sec and no, no, why was he stopping, barely twitched because she was rubber, really, couldn’t stitch a thought—when she squeaked again because even her orgasms are having orgasms, there’s just, like, this continuous shiver as he lapped at her, up and down, pausing every so often to slurp, like she was ice cream in August. She. Can’t.

He finally stopped, but there was more licking. Licking and rubbing a stubbly wet face all over her stomach, her chest as her t-shirt rode up and then got shredded off in impatience and that made her come again while Derek lay claim to her nipples like they were the last patch of frontier. His fingers were inside her again, crooking and squelching and his thumb worked her clit as he nuzzled and made this continuous rumble that sounded… like a purr. If wolves purred, while smearing cum-bloody Stiles juices all over her breasts.

In the way that they did.

Which was apparently a Stiles thing, too, because the smell made her dizzy, and not like she was going to puke.

Her body did something like—well, she hadn’t been hit by lightning, yet, though she was sure it was just a matter of time, but in any event, there was a jolt, everything burned, ached, stung, her skin cold and wet and hot and everything, everything, and Derek had his arm under her shoulders, licking her face, licking under her nose because she was sobbing gross snotty tears, this was why Stiles didn’t cry, but Derek kept licking, that and crooning “Mine, mine, give it to me, I want all of it,” which didn’t make any sense but she couldn’t stop shaking and sobbing because.

She didn’t know.

When she finally came to her senses, Derek’s got her pulled onto his shoulder and chest, his own heart for once almost as rabbit-uneven as Stiles’ feels most of the time. He’s, his—brain short circuits about abs/pec/naked Derek—pale and dark hair, soft, hairy, she wasn’t surprised, is all smeared with. Pink. Which she wasn’t going to think about too much. But he apparently managed to get himself off, because his jeans were open and there’s a spray (reverse waterfall? Going up?) of cum up his chest, on his belly, under her arm where he had it pulled across his. Yep. Rock-solid abs. 

She blinked, because. 

Well. 

“I think the host is supposed to offer a washcloth. Or something. But I don’t think I can move.” It got mumbled into Derek’s nipple, which was. Tan. Round. Perfect, like if she calculated its circumference it would be the goddamned golden mean. Surrounded by dark hair that smells like pine needles and spice cake and leather and had to be what Derek smelled like. Plus cum. 

So that was what guys’ cum smelled like. Her fingers wandered of their own accord because—and Derek growled when she sucked it off, tasting, because apparently, two can play at this game that heretofore was all in her head. Except now Derek has given her head. Spectacularly.

There was a silence that for once isn’t lurky or loomy or filled with Stiles’ imagination because she was, frankly, pooped, and then Derek said, his voice quiet as he ran his fingers through the hair she’d been growing out, just a bit, short enough for lacrosse but maybe not quite so butch—“Pain sharing only works between alphas and the wolves that they’ve made, or wolves and their mates.”

Ah. 

That would make sense, then, the Scott and Allison thing, except…

“If you ever let Scott or anyone else snuggle you ever again I will rend him, and then I will rend him again,” Derek said, and his voice is good-humored, but Stiles can tell he means it. "Lydia, too."

“Um. My dad likes to…” They’re going to have to talk about the slamming and rending of things. One of them had to be the responsible one. She might as well carry on. And she thought he understood she was so over the Lydia thing.

“Your father is fine,” Derek huffed, like he hadn’t just announced she was his mate and he would kill anyone who touched her, which suddenly put all the sniffing and growling and emo-pout-wolf faces into. A. Different. Perspective. A wolfy one. But still. Talking. Later. “In small doses.” He did something, because then she was lying on top of him and he’s licking her face again before he licks into her mouth and there was a real, human kiss.

Which did not leave her quivering at all or thinking about the taste of herself and her blood and her cum in Derek’s mouth. Hello, unexplored kinks, goodbye, rapidly fading virginity.

He huffed, like he could taste what she was thinking, then said—“We should take a shower.”

Of all the things Stiles expected, post-coital showering wasn’t the thing. 

“Don’t you. I don’t know. I figured. Wolves? Marking?”

Derek smiled, and there’s no other adjective. 

“Oh. They’ll know. Apparently you missed the memo. Which I didn’t send.” His smile was all self-deprecation, I’m-only-a-wolf-I-expect-you-to-know-you’re-my-mate, and she should be mad, but he was—upset that she hadn’t asked him for help, really, so. She’d yell at him later. For now, she let him kiss her again, and this time she was a more active participant because the word mate meant lots of things that were scary but a lot of things that were more awesome, but she’s seventeen and it was Derek, Derek who she can now see by her alarm clock, spent fourteen hours snuggling her because her head hurt, even though she didn’t ask, and then another hour thoroughly sexing her up because. Mate? Wow. Her cramps really were better.

She’d be embarrassed about the scent thing when she actually sees the pack again. Right now, she reached between them, dipped her finger between her legs to get them wet because—six hours before moonrise—and grabbed Derek’s cock, hardening even before she takes it in hand.

“Well,” she said, feeling a smile curl her mouth and a pulse throughout her body that’s not pain at all—“maybe we’d better make really sure.”

Derek’s eyes shaded even more red and his smile widened, white, blinding. She panted a bit at how pretty he was as he grunted and pushed up into her hand. 

“You’re probably right. Don’t want anyone to get confused.”

It was the last thing either one of them said for quite a while.


End file.
